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A SlIT OF SABLE 



A Sable Suit 
A Garb of Sable 
In Sable Garb 
In Gown of Sable 
A Sable Gown 
In Sable Skirts 
Or \ In Skirts of Sable 
A Girl in Sable 
A Dress of Sable 
A Sable Dress 
A Night in Sable 
or 
Any Similar Title 



A SUIT OF SABLE 



A COMEDY IN THREE ACTS 




BY 

CHARLOTTE THOMPSON 

II 
July, 1900 



COPYRIGHT 

u • 



43194 



TWO CiJfiC0 HeiCSlVSP. 

Library of Coi.gr«i% 

Office of tkv 



^J, It' 



■^ 



SEP4.1M0 a\Hl';^, 
CHARACTERS ^^^^^ uYcU^ ^^ 



Mr. Stuyvesant Van Dresser 

Mr. John Willoughby (Jack) - 

Mr. Robert McKee (Bob) . - 

Tom Follansbke 

W11.1.1E Lead 

Harry Gayi.a\vs 

Ed. Benti,ey 

Caryl Watson 

Joyce ..... 

Burton . . . - - 

Miss Matilda Van Dresser - 

Miss Dorothea Van Dresser (Dollie) 

Mrs. Ned Cruger (Helen) - Young 

Parker . . . - - 

Cliquot - - - - 



OCT 24 1900 

Father to Dorothea 

Cousin to Dorothea 

Friend to Jack 



Fellows at the Club 



Butler at Van Dresser's 

Jack's Man 

Sister to Stuyvesant 

widow — friend to Dorothea 

Maid to Dorothea 

A Danseuse 



ACT I. 
Scene: lyibrary at the Van Dresser's (Afternoon). 

ACT II. 
Scene i: Dressing-room at the Theatre. 

Scene 2: Jack's Rooms — a Candle Talk. 

ACT III. 
Scene: Library at the Van Dresser's (Night)^ 






ACT I. 



Scene: Library at the Van Dresser's, in green and flemish |oak; no 
other colors. Wide windows with seat R. B. giving on street. Two wide 
steps L. B. leading to hall. Door, portiered R. in 2. Door to Dining-room 
L. in I. Davenport I,. C. in 2. Piano R. C. between 2 and 3. Table, 
two chairs R C. in i. Wide high arm-chair L. in i. Wide open fire-place 
L. in I. Low practical book-cases L. in 2. Window seat, palms, lantern 
in hall landing. Consol table R. in i. Draw curtains to low wide windows 
in green. Old fashioned portraits of ancestors line the walls. Portrait of 
mother over consol table. Note: This is an old Knickerbocker room; 
elegant, plain, simple. Practical telephone hangs in hall L- Room has an 
occupied look. Book-case doors swing wide. Pillows on davenport dis- 
arranged; one on floor. Piano open; music scattered; one piece on floor. 
Book on floor near chair L. Magazines scattered on table; two on table. 
Ten letters on table. Busts of composers on piano. Old brass pieces on 
book-cases. Old mugs on mantleshelf, etc., etc. No jarring notes. Cur- 
tains at windows drawn unevenly; magazines on window seat. Enter 
Matilda L. U. E. Stops; looks at pillow on floor; at open book-case; at 
magazines; at book on floor; at open piano and music, then at windows; 
X'es in dignified disgust and draws one curtain; stands looking again at 
havoc. 



ACT I— Scene 



Matilda — This is inexcusable, inexcusable. 

Parker — You rang, mam? 

Matilda — Yes. What is the cause of this ? 

Parker — Perhaps Miss Dorothea — passed through. 

Matilda — Perhaps — in future you will plea.se — pass through after her. 

Parker — Yes, mam. 

Matilda — I found that on the table. 

Parker — What, mam ? 

Matilda — This dust. Can't you see it ? 

Parker — No, mam. 

Matilda — Parker, I have told you repeatedly that your sight is fail- 
ing — that you need glasses. Be good enough to attend to it at once. 

Parker — Yes, mam.. 

Matilda — You may fetch my basket. 

Parker — Yes, mam. 

Matilda — Where did those pillows come from ? 

Parker — Miss Dorothea sent them home, and ordered them put here, 
mam. 

Matilda — Take them up to her room. 

Parker — Yes, mam. 

3 



Matilda — Your cap is crooked. 

Parker — Yes, mam. 

Matilda — What is that ? 

Joyce — Flowers, mam, for Miss Dorothea. 

Matilda— Close the book-case. And the piano. Is Mr. Van Dresser 
in his study ? 

Joyce — Yes, mam. He is going out, mam. 

Matilda— Tell him to wait. I wish to see him. I shall be there 
presently. You may fetch me a shawl. 

Joyce —Yes. mam. 

Matilda — Fix the chairs before you go. 

Joyce — Fix them, mam? 

Matilda — Yes — straight. 

Matilda — Three. Six. Umph ! Ten. Vigorous masculine hand all 
of them. Six months from school. Something must be done. Thank you. 
Just set it down. 

Parker — There's something on her mind, She's fearfully excited. 
Do I look as though I could be divided exactly in half, from crown to 
toe? 

Joyce — You do. But let me tell you this — it's not such a wonderful 
thing to have two men wanting to marry you, that you need be talking 
about it all the time in all sorts of ways. I've heard tell of those as had 
four and five and didn't make much of it. 

Parker — You're a fool! 

Joyce — I am— to be waiting for you these ten years. You'll have 
mighty soon to choose between me and the coachman, for ten 3'ears is my 
limit. I'll soon be falling into temptation. 

Parker — It can't bi too soon for me. Till he's sowed his wild oats 
I'll marry no man. Besides, with Miss Dollie on my hands and shopping 
and bookkeeping, I've no time for either of you. 

Joyce — Bookkeeping ? 

Parker — I had to come to it. To keep track of where I put Miss 
Dollie's clothes. A new frock every third day since she's come home. 
The clo.^ets are fall of them and the chests and the wardrobes. And hats! 
I've a whole room full of them — like a shop. They must have cost a 
fortune. What with stockings and boots and ribbons and gloves and 
underclothes I'm at my wits end. It's my opinion the house will soon be 
packed solid. 

Joyce — Why does she buy such a heap ? 

Parker — How do I know. Don't ever ask the why of Miss Dollie's 
doings. But whatever she does is right and should be done. The house is 
a different place since she got back from school. And it's my opinion Miss 
Matilda is in a silent rage about it. 

Joyce — You might have left out the silent. If Miss Matilda ever 
raises her voice the very statues will stare. 

M.\TiLDA — Besides, I think this sort of thing has gone far enough. 

Stuyvesant — What sort of thing ? 

Matilda — Flowers, confections, letters. Men she has scarcely known 

4 



four months. Sit down. The child has no idea of the conventions — no 
respect for social laws — no pride of position. 

Stuyvksant — Matilda, you have full authority. Why is — this sort of 
thing permitted ? 

Matilda — Authority! Stuyvesant, you are not acquainted with your 
daughter. You have studied her for a wee.c only. I have watched your 
little surprises with interest. To-day, you are looking. When you have 
been home a month you will see. I was from the first averse to having 
Dorothea here while you were abroad, but you seemed to think differently. 

Stuyvesant — The child was graduated. She seemed anxious to be 
home. I saw no good reason for refusing. 

Matilda — At any rate, she should not have come out. At such a 
time, a young woman's father is her onlj^ proper escort. 

Stuyvksant — -But there was Jack. 

Matilda — Yes, there was Jack, and there has been Jack, there is 
Jack, and there will be Jack, I suppose, to the end. I have not your faith 
in Jack. 

Stuyvesant — He has gone against the bit some. What horse of 
mettle has not ? But that is past. I have no son. He is indispensable to 
me. He knows my opinions. He would not fail to respect them. 

Matilda — We are not here to discuss Jack, but Dorothea. I repeat, 
you are not acquainted with your daughter. How could you be? You 
have not s^en her for years. But that is an item. I have looked carefully 
to her education. Paris and Sacred Heart was your choice, and mine. 
The school is beyond reproach. Her record there is all that could be 
desired. For the rest, when we have traveled in the summer, I found her 
intelligent, observing, respectful, quiet — of admirable breeding. In six 
months all is changed. She is a different being. To know just what I 
mean, you must watch and see for yourself. She is indescribable. 

Stuyvesant — In what way, Matilda ? 

Matilda — I cannot explain ? . But it is a great disappointment. 

Stuyvesant — You are right; she is a terrible shock to me. I hated 
to admit it. I hoped I was mistaken — but each day seems to make matters 
worse. I am amazed. I do not understand it at all. But, my disappoint- 
ment has been from the cradle. She should have been a son. One who 
could hand down the name of Van Dresser — feel an ancestor's pride in it. 

Matilda — Exactly! But since the — mistake has been made we must 
abide by it; see that the child respects her blood. I must insist upon your 
sharing the responsibility. I can not shoulder it longer alone. You must 
make Dorothea understand that being mistress of this house includes a 
perfect deference to my wishes — a confidence in my judgment — an obedience 
to the loss of good form. 

Stuyvesant — I am certainly of your opinion. Radical measures of 
some sort must be adopted at once. My authority shall supplement yours. 
If we do not bring her to her senses soon — 

Matild.a — Here she comes. 

Dor. — My! It's blowing a perfect gale. Good morning, father. 

Stuyvesant — Good morning 

Dor. — Am I late for luncheon? 

Matilda— It is 3 o'clock. 

5 



Dor. — Oh dear! and I'm so hungry. Jojxe! Joyce! Fetch me some 
sherry— and a big plate of biscuits. And hurry, I'm starving. 

Matilda — We shall have tea presently. 

Dor. — Yes, but I can't wait. Jack hasn't been here has he? 

Matilda — No. Dorothea, will you please ring when you want 
attendance. And it's not necessary to explain your physical condition to 
the servants. I've told you that before, several times. 

Dor. — Main i — 8 — 6. Yes, yes, so you have, but I'm so stupid. I've 
told you that before, several times. Why should I not tell Joyce I'm 
hungry, if I am. And I certainly am. Hello! Is that you, Jack? Is this 
I — 8 — 5? Well hang up, please. Central, you gave me the wrong num- 
ber ? Yes. No. I — 8 — 6. Chumps. 

Matilda — Dorothea, no woman of breeding uses slang. 

Dor. — But that's such excellent slang. So comprehensive. Says so 
singly what a phrase might barely hint. No. i- — 8 — 6 6 6. So long as 
there lives in our midst anything so absolutely wooden as the telephone 
girl, dare we separate ourselves from the word "chump." 

Stuyvesant. — No slang is excellent. Matilda is right. Neither 
should you stand on common ground with a servant. It is inexcusable. 
Your position as mistress of this house demands a correct and dignified 
bearing. A Van Dresser should have that bearing by instinct. 

Dor. — But, father-Hello! Hello! Is that you Jack? Yes, W^hen are 
5'ou coming up? Oh, cut it. I've a duck of a story to tell you. Oh, no 
not over the phone. One lie farthers another. Right away? All right 
Sprint. But, father, Joyce? He mended my broken dolls and whittled boats 
for me when I was — j-o high. Thank you. Joyce. I'll take it here. Oh! 
Where are the pillows? 

Matilda. — I sent them to your room. 

Dor. — But I have plenty in my room already. I bought thcra for 
here. This is worse than a church pew. 

Matilda. — A library where guests are received is not the place for 
pillows and lounging. 

Dor. — Oh! Oh, father, I'm so glad you are come home. I don'i 
know you very well, but at least you're my father. You own me and we're 
never so terribly careful of our own champagne glasses as of the ones we are 
just hired to wash. I never could have stood another month of Aunt 
Matilda. vShe feels the responsibility of your daughter so keenly, that 
she forgets she is grown up and quite responsible for herself. One night a week 
out sin^e I've been home. Think of it! Nothing but guilds and smart 
little tea parties and not, so far, without a chaperone. It's been awful. 
And I've been as meek as Mo.ses, so as not to worry her. I've walked a 
perfect chalk line. Thank you, Joyce, you saved my life. 

Joyce — Yes, Miss. 

Dor.— I hereby witness, that Aunt Matilda has more than done her 
duty. I've walked with my toes turned out and my hand is hers, steadily 
for six months. Now! I'm ready to change hands. 

Stuyvesant— Your Aunt Matilda fills your mother's place. Her 
wishes are mine. No young woman is responsible for herself. 

Dor.— I met Bob on Broadway. He carried my bundles forme. 

Matilda — From the sho]) to the carriage? 

6 



Dor. — From the shop to the house. 

Matilda — You did not have the carriage? 

Dor. — I lent it to Helen to ride a mile away. 

Matilda — And shopped afoot — like a maid servant? Women of 
breeding do not carry bundles through the street. 

Dor. — If they are larger than a square inch. Yes, yes, I know. But 
you see I needed the things. 

Stuyvesant — Your bill from Arnold's came to-day. 

Dor. — Was it very big ? 

Stuyvesant — Far too big. 

Dor. — Why ? I had an idea 3/ou are very rich. Couldn't you afford to 
pay it ? 

Stuyvesant — It is not a question of affording to pay. I object to ex- 
travagance. 

Dor. — If you can concoct a powder or a pellet or a pill to cure woman 
of extravagance you will make a second fortune. Besides, if .you'd worn a 
convent uniform for nine years, you'd want a few Paquin gowns yourself. I 
don't believe your own tailor is a particularly cheap one. 

Stuyvesant — We will not discuss it. I want no such bills in future. 

Matilda — T think you have gowns and hats enough now to last you 
until you are married. 

Dor. — How long is that? I met Mr. Bentley, too. He wants four 
dances at the Patriarchs. That's a joke. 

Stuyvesant— You should dance with no man more than twice at any 
function. 

Matilda — At the last cotillion you danced four times with Jack. 

Dor. — But he's such a good dancer. Listen to this ! "Dear Miss Van 
Dresser — I hope you are not ill. I rode up and down the avenue a dozen 
times this morning and at last gave you up. You should not lose one of 
these mornings. They are glorious. Yours in disappointment, Tom Fol- 
lansbee." And I stole out the back way to avoid him. It's so much better 
fun to ride alone. 

Matilda — Ride ? 

Stuyvesant — Alone ? 

Matilda — What ? 

Stuyvesant— Where ? 

Dor. — Why, the bicycle. On the avenue. In the morning. 

Matilda — In the morning ! 

Dor. — Oh, long before you're up — five o'clock. It's perfectly glorious 
to feel the morning air in your face. If you'd let me teacli you to ride the 
bicycle, Aunt Matilda, you'd know what it is to live ! 

Stuyvesant — Alone — at five o'clock — on a bicycle — my daughter ! 

Dor. — And w^hy not? Only very good people are up and out at that 
hour. The bread and milk people. 

Matilda — This is the last straw. 

Stuyvesant — Sit down. - It is, as Matilda says, the last straw. 

Matilda — I suppose you wear bloomers ? 

Dor. — No, you're wrong. I never wear unbecoming clothes. The 

7 



well-dressed feeling is a greater consolation than praj^ers. Nothing like the 
moral support of a good gown. 

Stuyvesant — There is some small satisfaction in that. Hereafter 3'ou 
shall not ride at all. It is a vulgar habit at best. And alone, utterly inex- 
cusable. If you adopt the customs of the half world to the man who passes, 
you are of that world. 

Dor. — Father! 

Stuyvesant — And let me remind you that young women of your social 
position do not carry on correspondence like that, with men in the'tr own 
town. From whom are those letters ? 

Dor. — Friends. 

Matilda — Men, if one may judge by the superscription. 

Dor. — Yes, you're right. Men or men. Jack is the only man in our 
set, with the possible exception of Bob and Mr. Follansbee. 

Stuyvesant — Hereafter your mail shall pass through my hands. 

Dor. — Father ! 

Stuyvesant — Sit down. I am not arguing with you. I am telling you. 

Stuyvesant — Dorothea, I am keenly disappointed in youi It would 
be difficult for me to tell you just what you lack, but you do not grace my 
home. I have, at Matilda's suggestion, carefully watched you for a week. 
The indescribable lapses of the last few moments, though bad enough are 
nothing to those I could remind you of. I do not know how you have be- 
come what you are. I do not remember ever having been on familiar terms 
with another just like j^ou, so that I cannot attach you to your class. But 
you do not adorn my drawing-room. Your manners are boistrous, your 
opinions careless. Were you given your head at the convent — allowed to 
ride as you please ? 

Dor. — No, no. I ate; slept; talked; walked; breathed by rule at the 
convent. Am I to do the same here ? Is this a convent ? 

Stuyvesant — However bright, keen and attractive the axe might be, 
you would not set it there. By common consent, it is best in the wood pile. 
So inevitably we all find our places. Manners, conventional good manners 
are indispensable to a Van Dresser. I have no .son. The integrity of the 
house rests with you and whomsoever you may marry. A decent man's in- 
stinct is ever to become an ancestor. See to it that you are fit to be thewife 
of a gentleman, the mother of men. 

Dor.— Father! 

Joyce — These was left in the carriage, mam. 

MATiLDA-yStuy vesant ! 

Stuyvesant — These are yours? 

Dor. -Yes. 

Stuyvesant — You — 

Dor.— Bought them. Belzac, Ibsen. What objection? What do you 
know of them, anyway? 

Stuyvesant— They certainly are not what yozi should read. 

Dor.— At least I may have the Bachelor Book? You can have no 
objection to that. No well-regulated Knickerbocker family should be with- 
it. It is a perf.^ct stickler for good form and conventionality. It teaches 
me just how the men of our set should act— just what they should wear. 



There is a tendency to return to button boots. The buttons are smalle^ 
and the vamps shorter. Fat old gentlemen of sixty and upwards may wear 
turn down collars when in full dress — others should not. A "Tuxedo" is a 
stag coat, and should never be worn in the presence of ladies. 

Stuyvesant — Why do you laugh like that? 

Dor. — Like that? How shall I laugh? Not to laugh in some fashion 
is an impossibility. 

Matilda — You never acted like this before. 

Dor. — I never felt like this before. 

Stuyvesant — Dorothea, what I have said carries authority with it. 
You shall defer in all things to your aunt Matilda. She fills your mother's 
place. You shall maintain a proper dignity with the servants, and with 
your men acquaintances. The woman who sets herself free from conven- 
tions has taken a step down. She may have men about her but their atten- 
tions are not a tribute. 

Dor.— Father! 

Stuyvesant — The mistress of my house shall be a woman of breeding 
— worthy her nine hundred years old name. Worthy her forbears who 
came over in the Mayflower. 

Dor. — And did they never do anything else? Did they not spin and 
sew and cook and scrub and die for each other? Did they not love their 
children and keep them at home and watch over them? Fills my mothej's 
place? Oh! how could he say so? 

Jack — Well, what makes you look so unhappj'? 

Dor. — Being so. 

Jack — What's up. 

Dor. — Nothing. Everything's down, even my back hair. And to 
stay too, unless dynamite boosts them. But it won't. Things don't hap- 
pen so simply as that. 

Jack — Simply! What the dev — 

Dor. — O, go on, go on. Swear it out. I don't mind. In fact I rather 
like it. It sort of lifts a ton from the weight of sanctimonious correctness 
that is crushing in the walls of this jail. 

Jack — Jail! With hard wood floors and — 

Dor. — Creeping rugs and — 

Jack — Whistler etchings and electric bells; twelve course dinners and 
guests who dress three times a day? 

Dor. — Four— five — six — seven — eight! And do nothing else but gos- 
sip a little, talk Browning and Schopenhauer, walk, ride, drive, shop, and 
have tea at the proper hours — dialogue about good form and the right set 
— and wonder if Mrs. Grundy is fastening the right moral tag to their 
corpses. Look at them. A lot of varnished shadows. They're more to 
him than I. He doesn't love me. 

Jack — DoUie! 

Dor. — He's staked the future on me because I'm all he had, and he's 
going to lose. It's a decent thing to be born right. I'm obliged for the 
legacy and I'll pass it on without a smirch. But I'm not muslin-frocked 
and I'm not docile and the atmosphere of this place is killing me. Jack, 
since I was fourteen, I have not had one hour's real freedom. Do you know 

9 



what it means to live year in and yesLV out in an environment that never 
takes no for an answer. Nine years in a convent, sitting down every day 
to cultivate my mind; washed and dressed by 7 o'clock. A uniform at that 
— blue — hideous. Father and Matilda evidently discovered I had some 
moral inheritance that had to be caught young and caged. They sent me 
to the convent so that I should not be exposed to educational influences. 
Oh! I took it meekly, I supposed it happened to all girls. • (Had to be 
gone through with like the mumps and the measels.) But always I thought, 
one day it will be over and I shall be home — home. I learned by heart 
something of everything that has been or happened since the creation. 
When one straight line crosses another straight line, the vertical angles are 
equal! X little to the left and below the great curvature of the stomach lies 
the spleen. Its use in animal economy has not 3^et been discovered. It 
was awful! Why I walk along the streets to the march I went to bed by 
every night for nine years. Three thirty. Evety girl in Sacred Heart is at 
this moment studying history! Laugh. You poor thing. Something's 
been smouldering here for nine long years that's going to burst soon, and 
spill all over the righteousness of generations. 

Jack — Don't be mussy about it. 

Dor. — Jack, those five years of reading are all that saved me from 
being an idiot — an absolute idiot. 

Jack — (Poor little girl). 

Dor.— They filled my heart with thoughts, thoughts, thoughts, and 
kept me human and alive. 

Jack — Made you see things right, eh? 

Dor — I longed — how I longed — to talk them over with some one. Who 
was there? The nuns — the girls? Bah! Like trying to make oneself 
understood in foreign shops. You're the first person to whom I could ever 
talk and you're a godsend. I'm not very keen on technical analysis, but 
there are certain cells of life I've been given no meat for and I'm hungrj'-so 
hungry. 

Jack — Poor little girl. 

Dor — All m^^ days have been planned for me, but the sun shines, and 
I want — -.1 don't know what I want. There is something in this world I 
have missed. What is it? 

Jack — You have missed — the priceless discipline of a healthy boyhood. 
You should — marry. You should — marry. 

Dor. — Where then, shall I find a man ? 

Jack — They are not usually so scarce about heiresses that you need 
forage for them. With a little encouragement you might count on a dozen 
offers a season. 

Dor. — Too low. Twenty in four months, mostly by post. 

Jack — Post? 

DOK. — Yes, and messenger. How else can they do? I'm chaperoned 
to the limit of decency. You're the only man I'm ever alone with long 
enough to get acquainted. I don't see really why you're privileged. 

Jack — I'm your cousin. 

Dor. — Yes, sixth. 

Jack — Your father loves me. 

Dor.— That's right. 

10 



Jack— Your Aunt Matilda trusts me. I'm descended in a straight 
line from seven Southern ministers: 

Dor. — The midsummer Southern Sundays of your childhood. How 
filled with yawns they must have been. She trusts you ? She doesn't know 
you. 

Jack — Dorothea! ^ 

Dor. — ^John ! What's your college ? 

Jack — Plarvard. 

Dor. — And your record ? 

Jack — Spotty. 

Dor. — So yotc have disgraced your ancestors? 

Jack — It's a good thing to have a pedigree, but you've got to make 
your own record. For that, ancestors don't amount to a hill of beans. 

Dor. — Don't they, now? I'd like to have a hill of beans and a pea- 
shooter and be left alone with mine for a few minutes. I think I'd feel 
better. Oh \ Hello ! I'm so glad you've come. 

Bob. — Why, what do you want ? 

Dor. — Company. 

Helen — That's complimentary. 

Bob — Hello, old man ! 

Jack — Fact is, we're planning our domestic futures and need advice. 
' Helen — Well, at last you've come to your senses. I have been won- 
dering how much longer you two were going to keep on loving each other 
without finding your tongues. 

Bob — You're a might}^ luck}^ dog and I hope you'll make yourself 
worthy of her. But how about the girl in the gray morocco case? Has she 
jilted 5^ou ? 

Dor.— Bob 1 

Jack— Helen! 

Helen and Bob— What ? 

Dor. — Were not in love. 

Jack — Not in the least. 

Dor. — ^That's a joke. We're too good friends for that. The fact is, 
Jack advises me to marry, and was about to pick me out a husband. Here 
they are — almost the whole set. Pitch in — make a choice. You can't go 
far wrong. Almost all have taken the plunge. Bentley, never! 

Helen — He's a clod. 

Dor. — And I had but to meet him once to know it. I was dining at 
his Aunt's informally quite, but gowned for the opera and consequently — 

Bob — Stunning! 

Dor.— I was told so. He came in late. Look at his ears. He sat 
down beside me — beside me. I talked and how I talked. The roast was 
serving. He was so infatuated that he remembered to ask for soup and 
drank two dishes — the Goth. 

Helen— The Turk. 

Jack — The savage. 

Bob— The Boer. 

Dor. — Watson! A flannel clad man. Heart, no head. Look at his 

II 



feet! Poor old Watson. I accepted him one night at a party. And 
refused him the next morning by messenger. 

Helen — DoUie, how could you ? 

Dor.— I wanted to give him one happy night. He'll never get 
another. Next. Norris! Look at his tie! Look at the pleats in his face! 
He's bald. Jack! You choose ill. Slits for eyes— humpy— a walking 
habadashers— lives in Chicago. Jack! He doesn't love me. He hasn't 
asked me. Follansbee— dear old Sam. But I don't love him. Bently— 
equal to a dinner. 

Helen— Or a dance. He's a heavenly waltzer. 

Dor. — Yes, he's a heavenly waltzer. Now if one might waltz through 
life. 

Bob — What's your candle talk to-morrow night — stag? 

Jack — Yes — rather. 

Bob — What's going to happen ? 

Jack— Sauer plays the violin; Hiller juggles; Wilson does a mono- 
logue and— Mile. Marguerite La Petite Cliquot dances. 

Bob— Mile. Marguerite —you don't say! Doesn't she ask a fortune ? 

Jack — Not so steep. I owe the boys something rather decent. Do 
you know^ who she really is ? 

Bob— No. Who? 

Jack — Old Corelli, the palmist's daughter. 

Bob — How do you know ? 

J.ACK — The people at the theatre sent me to the old .scarecrow. Seems 
he manages all her business. Pockets the funds, too, I guess. Just came 
from there. He gave me her picture. 

Bob — Gosh! But she is the image of Dollie. 

Jack — Have you just waked up ? That's been club talk for weeks. 

Bob — But it's almost uncanny when you look at the picture. I don't 
believe she's his daughter at all. She's really going to dance at your 
candle talk ? 

Jack — Really, to-morrow night. 

Dor.— Great Scott ! Helen ! 

Helen — Ye gods and goddesses ! 

Dor.— Why ! When did I set for it ? Yes. But who is she ? 

Jack — Mile. Marguerite, La Petite Cliquot, a dancer, a vaudeville star. 

Dor. — Oh Yes. I've read her name on the bill boards. 

Bob — She's you from head to toe. 

Dor. — How do you happen to know? 

Bob— There's a precious promise in a pretty foot and ankle that seldom 
fails to be kept. 

Dor. — And she dances at your candle talk to-morrow night ? How nice! 

Helen — Why not invite us ? 

Jack— You might come. What's the use ! You won't come without 
Dollie. Dollie can't come without Aunt Matilda, and Aunt Matilda wont 
come. I've asked her several times. 
Dor. — She never told me ! 



12 



Jack — No. I suppose not. It was one of her judicious reticences. It's 
rather stag to-morrow night, anyway. 

Dor.— Oh ! Well, I never ! 

HeIvEN — Fancy those two not knowing they're in love. 

Helen — Fancy those two not knowing they're in love. No matter 
what we talk about — soap, salad, or suicide, she tinges her answers with 
Jack as naturally as trees burst their buds. 

Bob — With whom do you tinge your answers? 

Helen — I'm a widow and diplomatic. 

Joyce — Here, miss? 

Dor. — In the billiard room, Joyce. Come. 

Bob — Helen! Just a minute! Do you really think that Dorothea is in 
love with Jack? 

Helen — Why I'm sure of it. Why do you ask? 

Bob — Because if it's true, you had better discourage her before it goes 
any further. 

Helen — Why what do you mean! 

Bob — That yesterday I caught him in his room, dreaming over the 
picture of a girl in a gray morrocco case. He would not let me see her but 
he told me seriously, and with the deepest love in his eyes, it was the picture 
of the girl he would one day marry, if she would have him. When I asked 
him if 1 knew her, he said "No, indeed you do not." 

Dor.— Helen! Bob! 

Bob — Coming! And he meant what he said, too. I have never seen 
him more serious. 

Helen — I'd have sworn he loved Dollie. I believe she thinks he does. 

Bob — Well, you had better tell her at the first opportunity. 

Dor.— Helen! 

Helen — Coming! 

Matilda — She is too much in Jack's society, Stuyvesant. What can 
one expect when they are allowed unchaperoned far and wide? 

Stuyvesant — Far, Matilda, and wide? The length of the drawing- 
room, the width of the golf links? He is her cousin. She might copy his 
manners with profit. I have hoped that one day they might marry. But 
he will not want a hoyden for a wife. 

Matilda — There you are wrong. I believe he is in love with her 
now. But I repeat, I have not your faith in Jack. He is fast, idle and 
extravagant. 

Stuyvesant — Idle? He has proven himself devoted to my interests 
during my absence. As a lawyer, his name is respected. He is even talked 
of for ministerial honors. For so young a man, it is remarkable. He has 
a firm, decisive spirit. He will be master in his home. What my daughter 
needs is a master. Extravagant? 

Matilda — His clothes — his rooms in Washington Square — his man — 
a Madison avenue air of training and more a month than he has any right 
to pay. And' he has not yet sown his wild oats — not by any means. I 
have watched him and I know what I am talking about. I have overheard 
the remarks of women whose husbands and sons know him. You are no 
judge. Your love for him makes you blind to his shortcomings. 

13 



Stuyvesant — Why he spends all his leisure time here. 

Matilda — Not at night, Stuyvesant. Not at night. 

Stuyvesant — How often does he invite us to his rooms at night? He 
would not do that if — 

Matilda — He invites us to functions. Functions have nothing in 
common with daily dinners. 

Stuyvesant — Matilda, he doesn't look like it. 

Matilda— His man— the traces of last night's dissipation well groomed 
away. If you should happen in to Jack's rooms a few nights after twelve, 
uninvited, you might have your eyes opened. He may make a diplomat, 
but he is no husbaud for Dorothea. 

Stuyvesant — You believe this of course — or you would not speak as 
3'ou do. The thought is a terrible shock to me. I have had this marriage 
in my heart for years and I cannot at a word— even your vi-ord, divorce the 
hope. I must be convinced. I must see — and at once. Your suggestion is 
a good one. We shall go to his rooms after 12, uninvited. Until we kjiow 
know that I am right and you are wrong. I would trust Jack with my all, 
He is my boy, my son, Matilda. 

Matilda — I am rarely mistaken in my judgments, Stuyvesant, as j'ou 
shall see. She plays billiards like a man. That's Jack's teaching. 

Stuyvesant — The one, the only care for Dorothea's — condition, to 
my mind is marriage. We shall go to Jack's rooms tomorrow night. 

Matilda — There is the opera tomorrow night, wnth Dorothea, and the 
night following as well. 

Stuyvesant — After the opera is early enough. 

Matilda — But with Dorothea, not convenient. Her absurd fashion of 
sitting here for hours afterward playing things over. Did we leave the house 
again, she would wonder. I object to speculation. 

Stuyvesant — A Van Dresser should be too well bread to wonder. 

Matilda — Should be, yes. The carriage, Joyce. 

Joyce — Yes, mam. 

Stuyvesant — The low carriage. 

Joyce— Yes, sir. 

Matilda — You will drive with me? 

Stuyvesant — In ten minutes. We can talk things over, and plan a 
later night. 

Matilda —I shall be waiting in the morning room. 

Joyce— I don't like the set of their backs. Things is brewing. Things 
is brewing. 

Dor. — And do you wonder I'm not happy, dear? How could I be? 
Aunt Matilda is always so. Of father, I had such beautiful dreams, but 
when he talks to me like that I — 

Helen — The old cats ! You had better come and live with me. 

Dor. — I wish I could. 

Helen — What did you do last night ? 

Dor. — Dined and went to bed. 

Helen — Alone ? 

Dor.— Oh. no. There were guests. Mr. and* Mrs. Bertram, fifty each; 

14 



Mr. and Mrs. Marshall, sixty; Mr. and Mrs. Sillacombe, forty and seventy; 
and so on ad lib; large gray chunks of age, all of them. This is a home for 
the aged. The house is old, the servants are old, the cats are old, the dogs 
are old, the very canary's so old he can't sing. 

Helen — Wasn't Jack here? 

Dor.— No, not last night. 

Helen — I suppose he was with the girl in the gray morocco case? 

Dor. — The girl in the gray morocco case? 

Helen — Don't tell me that you don't know. I supposed you were 
chums, that he told you everything. The girl he is going to marry, I mean. 

Dor. — Going to marry — Jack ? 

Helen — Jack, and none other. 

Dor. — How do you know ? Who told you ? 

Helen — Bob. He catches him frequently dreaming over her picture 
in a gray morocco case, well thumbed. He wears it always next his heart. 

Dor. — O, Jack, Jack. 

Helen — I wonder who she is. Jack won't say much, but he told Bob 
he didn't know her. Hasn't told you? Well, I should say he'd been very 
quiet about it. 

Dor. — I should say he'd been very sly about it. I wonder who she is. 
I wonder if she's gretty? 

Helen — A blonde. Bob says, and if he's a judge, a beauty. Wonder 
where he met her. Poor little girl ! 

Dor. — Yes, I suppose he was with her. For my part, I don't see why 
he comes here at all. I certainly wouldn't if I were he. It's duller at all 
times than a fifteen cent scissors ! 

Dor. — And I'm sick, sick, sick of it all, and I want air ! I want a gale ! 
I want to do something awful; shock the race to its foundations. I suppose 
L,a Petite, whoever she is, uses bad grammar and perfume and too much 
rouge and a quantity of slang. But I'd give the whole line of them, and all 
this exclusiveness and a few years of my life thrown in to dance in her shoes 
for a single night; free, free from do and don't and stupidity. Helen ! Why 
not ? Why couldn't I dance — in her place — at Jack's candle talk — to-mor- 
row night ? 

Helen — Dollie ! 

Dor. — I could I — 

Helen — You couldn't— how could j-ou? 

Dor. — I will ! 

Helen — Dollie ! 

Dor. — I will ! I will ! Listen ! She's old Corelli, the palmist's daughter. 
I'll have my palm read in the morning. The whole story is in it. I'll 
wager a hat. A dash for freedom and success. You can see it in every line. 
He loves gold. You know his charges at the charity fetes. I'll bribe him 
to let us change places. I'll borrow her clothes. No, no, I'll buy some 
like hers, but longer. 

Helen — I should hope so ! 

Dor. — Don't sit back — you'll break your spine if you do. Pillows are 
not allowed in this barracks. I'm the image of her. Look ! It will be 
perfectly beautiful. I'll have one night of freedom, if I never have another. 

15 



Helen— Dollie, you're crazy. They'll all know you. 

Dor.— Who? Jack? Yes. Mr. Follausbee, if he's there. Bob and 
you; not the others, I promise you. 

Helen — Me ! 

Dor. — You don't suppose I'm going alone, do you ? We'll plan it to- 
gether. Helen ! We will plan it together. And when it's all fixed, so 
there is no backing out, you shall tell Bob at the last moment. And he 
shall help us. He'll do anything you say. You will, won't you, dear. I'll 
do it alone, then, for do it I will. 

Helen— It will just be a lark. It won't harm her. Her heart's so sore 
now. It will do her good. She'll get over it best so. I will help her. 
Why not ? Dollie ! • 

Dor. — Helen ! Helen ! 

Helen— I will. I'm with you to the end. It will be the lark of our 
lives. To Corelli in the morning ! Good-bye ! But you're going to the 
opera to-morrow night ! 

Dor. — I'll get out of it. 

Helen — Oh, no, you won't. There's Matilda. 

Dor. — I'll get out of it — if I have to catch the whooping-cough. 

Helen — I have my doubts about it. 

Dor. — I haven't. Good-bye ! 

Helen — Tell Bob I'll be home at eight. 

Dor.— Father ! I think I had rather not — go to the opera to-morrow 
night. I'm so very tired of Trovatore. I had rather stay at home, 

Stuyvesant — Very well. As you please. Nothing could be more 
opportune, for myself and Matilda. 

Dor.— Very well, as you please. That's my father. In a gray 
morocco case — dreaming. And I dreamed that he loved me. The 
one thing worth living for. He might have told me. He might have told 
me. I could have sworn that he loved me. (Pause — repeats father's words 
as though they held a terrible revelation). You may have men about you, 
but their attentions are not a tribute — oh — oh. He's been amusing himself, 
that's all — that's all. What is it all for — this living and loving and hcart- 
hreaking. Oh Jack, Jack! I'll show him how little I care. I'll spend the 
whole day planning it. I wonder if it will pain him. Why should I care, 
if it pleases me — and it will please me. Perhaps she'll be there and I'll see 
her. He'll be shocked like the rest of them, that's all. I want to shock 
them. I could have sworn that he loved me. (Looks at her hand as though 
reading the story.) The whole story. 

Parker — You rang, miss? 

Dor. — I'm thinking, Parker — wondering what sort of maid you are. 

Parker — Sort of maid, miss? 

Dor. — Yes, Parker. There are two sorts, I've read all about them in 
books. One sort listens at the keyhole — steals ribbons and pocket hand- 
kerchiefs, talks a lot in the servants' hall, falls in love with the butler and 
considers her mistress third ever after. The other sort — doesn't. Now*, 
which sort are you? 

Parker — Miss Dorothea — why I served your mother. 
Dor. — That's just the trouble. You're another inheritance — a hand* 

i6 



down with the Van and the crest and the portraits and the Mayflower — and 
the rest of the cast-iron grips on the past. You're like the family plate. I 
use it. Aunt Matilda counts it. Father owns it. 

Parker — But Miss Dorothea, I don't understand you at all. 

Dor. — No, Parker, I suppose not. The fact is, I may need you to do 
something for me. Oh! Very soon. And I want to be svire. Now sup- 
pose aunt Matilda should tell you to leave the room and I should tell you 
to stay — which would j^ou do? 

Parker — But Miss Dollie — you wouldn't. 

Dor. — But suppose, Parker, suppose. Which would you do? 

Parker — I'd stay, miss. I'd stay. 

Dor.— Oh you darling — you dear old thing! But I don't believe you. 
Would you really? 

Parker — I would, miss. I would! 

Dor. — Parker — Fetch back those pillows! Hello! - O, Helen, 
What? A perfect snap. Gone to drive. Yes, didn't care at all. What? 
Very well. As you please. I told you I'd get out of it. If he only knew. 
Crying? I'm not crying. To-morrow morning at lo. No. Here. All 
right. Goodbye. 



ACT II. 



Scene i : Dressing Room of Mile. Cliquot. Door L. B. Table L. in 
2. Dresser R. with stool. 3 chairs--R. F., L. and R. B. Promiscuous 
notes, tablet and pencil and flowers on table. Various ballet gowns on pegs. 

DiscovERDD : Mile. Cliquot .seated C. back to audience; dressed in gor- 
geous red; hat with plumes; legs crossed; smokes a cigarette. Helen L. F. 
at table, putting D's clothes in hamper; wears evening gown; hat; cloak over 
chair. Dorothea C, back to audience, almost dressed. Parker is just 
putting last skirt over her head. At rise of curtain, all talk at once, sort of 
buzz, then separately, coming in at different places, like a round. 

Helen — It's frightfully late. Can't you hurry, Parker? 

Parker — No, I can't. I'm not used to dressing dancers. And I can't 
learn all at once. 

Cliquot — I like your stockings. They're stunning. 

Dor. — Ouch! Parker, I'm full of small holes. What makes you so 
clumsy ? 

Cliquot — She's nervous. Pin her and sew her well. It's not com- 
fortable to have things give way when you dance. Fix 3^our garters — you 
don't want your stockings to slip down — it wouldn't be becoming. And 
you needn't be nervous, any of you — candle talks and private vaudevilles, 
they're all of a piece — stupid crushes — you come and you dance and you're 
asked to eat and you do or you don't and you go. My dear, you're simply 
scenery, meant only to be seen. You know this Mr. — Willoughby? 

Dor. — Slightly — not very well. But that doesn't make any difference. 
I'm simply taking a dare — winning a wager. It will be a cold plunge. 

Cliquot — I guess you can manage it without chattering. If you 
dance well he'll never know it's not me. Do you dance well? 

17 



Helen — They didn't dance much at the convent. 

Dor. — And they prayed a great deal. Yet, somehow I don't know the 
prayers and I dance pretty well. 

Cliquot — Well brace up — brace up. I've put you on to every thing 
I can think of and you're a pretty clever mimic— that's what. Don't fuss 
too much with her hair. It's a beastly habit— this hair dressing habit — 
worse than tattooing, though not so permanent. 

Helen — What would your father say if he knew ? 

Dor. — Nothing. He'd be struck dumb. 

Cliquot — So you have a father ? 

Dor. — Yes. 

Cliquot — And a mother ? 

Dor. — No. 

Cliquot — Oh! Well don't tell your father. It would be a pity to 
have him dumb. Are you going to tell me your name? Is it a secret? 

Dor. — It's not a secret. My name is Dare. Mable Dare. 

Cliquot — You're well named. And you live — 

Dor. — In Chicago. Don't! A horrid place, where the wind blows the 
door mat up to the hall clock every time you open the door. Don't ! 

Cliquot — High winds are good. They give courage. 

Dor. — My father is in the pork and beef business. We go home again 
to-morrow and must have an adventure to take back. If you ever come to 
Chicago I'll have father show you the sights. 

Helen — Who is it ? 

Bob — I — Bob— Let me in at once. 

Helen — Wait a minute ! 

Bob — Let me in — at once. 

Helen — Come in. 

Bob — Helen ! Dorothea ! 

Helen — Don't make a scene ! 

Cliquot — Dorothea ! Who's your friend? 

Dor. — Mile. Cliquot — Mr. Smith. 

Cliquot — Delighted ! 

Dor. — How do I look ? 

Cliquot — You look just like me, and last week when I danced at 
Sherry's they said I was a dream. 

Bob — This is not last week. Mile. — and not Sherry's. 

Dor. — Do I look real French ? 

Helen — You look like a black cloud of bargains from the veiling 
counter. 

Bob — A modern Hogarth mightpaint you and call it "The First Step." 
You look hot and unhappy. 

Dor. — As to people's looks, a great deal I find queer, but unimportant. 
Now, what do I do ? 

Cliquot Put on a little rouge — you look pale. ' 

Bob — This is simply outrageous, abominable ! If 3'ou had even hinted 
that the plan included — this, nothing would have won my help. It is in- 
excusable. 

18 



HeIvEN — There was no other way. 

Bob — I shall never forgive you. To go to your hotel, to expect you 
there, to be greeted by a note, and such a note : "You will find us at Mile. 
Cliquot's dressing-room, waiting. Come at once." The very doors danced. 
Helen, how could you ? 

Helen — I don't know. 

Bob — I think we have gone far enough. There's time to draw back. 
You had better do it. 

Cliquot — Oh no, there isn't. She's half an hour late as it is. Not do 
it? Of course she'll do it. Why not? It's the greatest lark yet. Pure 
downright fun — that's all. Don't be so conservative. Do a few things on 
impulse and you'll know what it is to live. Just see it through dear, and 
good luck to you. Jolly up. Take the pleasure out of it and leave the 
paiji for the other fellow. She's all right. She's from Chicago. She's a 
wonder. If anj^ more notes come read them yourself. It may help you to 
play the part. Don't leave them about though. 

Bob — Mile.! Don't talk of this on the outside. 

CijouoT — I, talk? Bless you — I'm far too busy dancing for that. 
Good-night — good luck to you. 

Helen and Dor. — Good-night. 

Dor. — Well, she may be a dancer, and she may have a history, and 
she may not belong to our set — but she has the artist's soul. 
Bob — And what is that? 

Dor. — Wo-o-o-o-o what a bear. It is to dare magenta roses next to 
blood red glory. 

Bob And use bad grammar. 

Dor. And smoke cigarettes, and drink champagne, and go about 
without a chaperone, and begin with the wrong fork. But that's environ- 
ment. 

Bob Who taught you to talk like that? Let us go home Dor. Don't 
do it. What makes you do it? 

Dor. The sense of danger — the spirit of adventure, and a want of — 
I don't know what. It doesn't matter now. I'm here. I'm going to have 
one hour's real freedom— all there is of it and you can't stop me. 

Bob But I tell you it's duced bad form — at least you might have cut 
—this. 

Dor. Ring the bell for prayers! Who'll know it. Aunt Matilda, 
who can look at my shoes and tell whether the stockings fit under them, 
would not have known the bundles of drapery that came in. There was no 
other way. I needed coaching. 

Bob Ugh? Well, Cliquot's father should have prevented it — all of it. 
He should have had better sense. 

Helen He had. He's a Solomon for wisdom. Wouldn't hear of it 
at all. His daughter must keep her engagements. 'Twas not professional. 
Most irregular. Who was the girl? She was crazy. . 
Bob So she is. 

Helen Twice — thrice the price wouldn't pay him. I talked myself 
hoarse and left in despair. But most truly is it said "The darkest hour is 
just before the dawn." I met Mile, on the stairs. It took just four min- 
utes to get her consent. She is young. The adventure appealed to her, as 

19 



it would to any human person. It was she suggested this to give Dor. 
pQJ„t^ — put the finishing touches to her toilet and the Cliquot twist to her 
coiffure. I was about to protest when the Corelli door banged above. My- 
self, the diplomat, said to m3^self the woman "She who hesitates is lost." I 
agreed and — flew. I had — we had qualms all day. 

Dor. — Keep it singular. 

Helen — And I thought of the tuition, w-ithout which it might not be 
an artistic success. 

Bob— It's anything but decent. The whole thing anything but proper. 

Dor. — Are my eyebrows twins ? 

Bob — Yes. 

Dor. — Perfect twins ? 

Bob — No! They're sights. 

Dor. — Don't be such a bear. I had to see her and speak to her if I 
would imitate her. 

Bob — It's not essential that you should imitate her. Here! 

Dor. — You're a tiger. Now I'll tell yovL the truth about it. I was 
dying to come here. Tickled to death. I'm glad I came. It's broadened 
my horizon beyond the rim of a teacup. Aunt Matilda! 

Bob— Open the door, Parker. 

Voice — For Mile. Cliquot. 

Helen— Now this is something like — quite professional. Mile. 
Cliquot 

Dor. — American Beauties! 

Bob — What do you know about its being quite professional? 

Helen — Only what you taught me. When Jack asked you last night 
how you liked Miss Bobbs, what did you say ? Sweetest thing in the 
world — flowers from me every night. 

Dor. — Listen to this. "Dear Mile. — Am I right ? Did you last night 
reward my devotion with a glance ? If so, I am in heaven. I sit in the 
front row, have light hair and lean forward. I fancy this bauble will fit 
your tiny hand. Try it. I hear j'ou are on the program at Willoughby's 
vaudeville. I'll be there. Until then — Au revoir. Yours to a cinder, 
Willie Lead." Willie Lead? Of course he will and win the game, I 
fancy, if he keeps up this sort of thing. Who is he ? 

Bob — A sap-head, with too much money. You're not going to wear 
that ? 

Dor. — Why .not.? I'll do as I please, and I please to keep niy self 
respect. Don't worry. 

Bob — What right have you to read her notes, wear her jewels? 

Dor. — She told me to herself — you heard hear. 

Bob — It's not necessary to the game. 

Dor. — No, but it's so desirable. 

Bob — I can't make you out. You, a Van Dresser ! 

Dor. — A black-haired Van Dresser. All the women up to this have 
been tow-heads. Gipsey strains do .sometimes creep into the blood of ancient 
royal stock. I was educated in Paris. I'm a translation from the French. 

Helen — Everything in but the real bad. 

20 



Dor. Father! Don't leave me a second, will you, Parker? I'm 
getting so nervous. The more I try not to, the nervouser I get. 

Parkkr Your best come home, Miss Dollie. This is a bad business. 

Dor. But it's lots of fun. What's that? "Dear Mile. "Wear this 
bracelet on the most beautiful arm in New York. Why confine yourself to 
New York? If I see it to-night, I shall be the happiest of men. Do you 
know the message of the mignonette? 'Your qualities surpass your 
charms.' How does he happen to know? And your — something mighty 
familiar about this writing — charms are infinite! B. — " B. — B. — Bently! 
It's his writing. I know it. One of the twenty. Delicious ! 

Bob Don't tag a man's character with a note and an escapade. 

Dor. I won't ! I won't ! No matter what you do if your 'art be true. 

Bob He's a ripping good sort. 

Helen They are jilted by the same woman. That makes any man 
your brother. 

Dor. This is the best of all. Listen ! "Dear Cliquot: Hear are 
some poppies. Do you want them? Isn't that simple and dear ? Do you 
ever eat? 

Bob Do you ever eat? 

Dor. Confections. These are good — The man's a perfect child — good, 
good. Perhaps you remember meeting me in Chicago, the man — the man — 
the man — oh, I forget, um-m-m-m. If you want to ride excitement to his 
stable, believe me, Yours to command, B. Gaylavvs." P. S. I'm balancing 
at the box office in eager anticipation of an answer." 

Bob Take that out. 

Dor. Theres a moving coolness about it that does the brain good. I 
must answer him. "Dear H. GaylawS: Come to my dressing room — what 
time is it? Half past lo — at 10.40." 

Bob Dollie ! 

Dor. And I'll not be there. You goose ! Come — my coach — 
Parker, my coat. 

Bob And j^our veil. I hope it's a thick one. 

Dor. I think one is thick enough, don't you? 

Bob Oh ! I should think you would need two to cover your conscience. 

Helen Conscience ! What is conscience ? 

Dor. The name of a new monthly magazine — no, circulation. 



ACT I Scene 2 

Scene 2 : Willoughby's apartments. In red and walnut; no other 
colors. One shade of red. Red candles with red shades in all possible 
places. One red lamp; no other light except firelight — also red. Calcium 
throusjh firelight on dance. Fireplace L. in 2. Doors C. B. and L- in 3 
leading up step and off to anteroom. Round large table, R. C. with three 
chairs. Couch L. C. with cushions. Buflfet L. B. with glasses, bottles, 
champagne cooler with bottle; chairs and rugs to complete seXXm^ ad lib. 
No fancy touches; a man's room. Music of orchestra heard in anteroom; 
suggestion of a function. 

Discovered : Burton, Jack's man, at buffet fussing. Bentley, Watson 



and Lead at Table R. Lead back, reading paper, Watson R. and Bentley 
L. playing cards. Follansbee L. smoking, feet on conch. Four men by 
fireplace to help out scene. At rise of curtain Watson and Bentley play out 
their hands; no hurry. Let .scene be felt. At last play, Watson rakes in 
money. 

Bentlev Broke ! 

Lead Lend you something ? 

Bentley No, thanks, Willie, not to-night. 

Lead That's a pretty tune. I prefer it to Wagner. 

Follansbee And rag time to either. 

Bent. Take your feet down, Tom. Practice some manners. There's 
a lady coming. 

Follansbee What lady ? 

Lead Mile. Marguerite, Le Petite Cliquot. 

Follansbee Who's she ? 

Bent Who's she? Who's she? You've watched her dance at 
Keith's a dozen times to my knowledge. 

Follansbee Lots of dancers at Keith's; wh-ich is she ? 

Bent Miss Van Dresser's double. Don't you read your programs, 
Quickstep ? 

Follansbee No, why should I read my programs ? What do I care 
about Smith Bros. Catarrh Cure and Carter's Little Liver Pills may be the 
most perfect thing he knows of, but hang their perfection ! They're deadly 
dull when I'm looking to see who plays Tony Lumpkin. I believe in the 
Hammam Bath, the cleaner almighty, the maker of five dollar smoking 
jackets, and in John Brown, his only rival, who conceived the brilliant idea 
of making our own materials up. But there are moments no man has a right 
to steal from me, and I don't believe in the forgiveness of sins. When the 
last great curtain rings down upon the maker of programs, may the asbestos 
in it be all that it is cracked up to be. 

Bob Hello, boys ! 

Watson & Bent Hello, Bob ! 

Bob Hello, Tom ! You've been making one of your damn speeches 
again. Sit down and rest. Where's Jack? Where have you all been? 
Haven't seen a soul of you to-night. What's going on ? 

Bent. Music- -monologues — ^juggling — Mile. Marguerite dances later 
on. 

Bob Yes, so I heard. Where's Mr. Willoughby ? 

Burton In there, sir. There's guests, sir. Be out in a minute, sir. 
Make yourself at home, sir. 

Bob Find him. Tell him I want him. 

Burton Yes, sir. 

Bob Hello. Willie, where did you dine ? 

Lead At Carrington's. The roast was overseasoned. 

Bob Too bad ! Have a cigarette? Where did you lunch, Tom? I 
missed you. 

Follansbee At the Club. 



Lead Yes, we both did. The claret was cold. 

Bob You don't say ! Awful ! 

I^EAD Inexcusable. 

Bob — Come from behind. What you reading ? Society notes. By 
gosh! I might have known. 

. Lead — Mrs. Burton Stetson is at Nice for the winter. 

Bob — I wonder who's paying for that ? 

FoLLANSBEE — So long as you're not, what's it to you ? 

Bob — If you were not so awfully in love with I'd begin to think 

that you 

F01.LANSBEE Go to the devil! 

Bob I did several years ago. We've been pals ever since. Mrs. 
Blatant's beautiful home at Inglemead is about completed. She has not 
yet fixed upon a name. "Gossip's Grove" would be a good one. She says 
your father made trunks for a living. 

FoLLANSBEE And damned good ones they were, too. 

Bob a phantom jag in every breath. And yours was a chef, Willie. 

Lead My father was a gentleman. 

Bob Of course — of course. There's nothing essentially antithetical 
between being a gentleman and being a chef. Where the devil is Jack ? 
Mrs. Lacy Lawton. I always feel like a Chinaman when I speak that 
name — aiispronounced R's you know. Mispronounced R's! Racy Rawton — 
Mrs. Racy Rawton has given up her summer residence for the present. 
Present? I'll bet it was half of Tiffany's. 

FOLLANSBEE Give over, Bob. Another dose of that will be fatal. 

Bob All right. Lead, you should take to catering. It's right in 
your line. Have a cigarette ? Have another ? Who is it ? 

FOLLANSBEE Mrs. 

Bob Heavens! Whatalowcut. Did you ever! Like the Troglodytes 
of old who's only dress was an ointment — a sort of grease paint as it were. 

FoLLANSBEE And they were thoughtful enough to live underground, 
We're fast coming back to the wholesome, innocent simplicity of in the 
beginning. 

Bob And what's the use? It would only mean another Eden, 
another apple, another temptation, another fall and no machines to sew the 
fig mantillas. Where the devil is Jack! 

Jack Hello, Boys! 

All Hello, Jack! 

Jack Hello, Bob! Did you want me? 

Bob. Yes. Where's Mile. Marguerite Le Petite Cliquot? Didn't 
you say she was going to dance for you ? 

Jack Yes. Don't be in a hurry. Lots of time. Beautiful things 
doing in there. She isn't the only one on the program. 

Bob But she's the only woman. 

FoLLANSBEE Sit down. What are you all standing for ? Sit down, 
down — sit down. 

Bob I can't. 

Lead Been riding horseback again ? 

23 



Bob I have a communication to make. The fact is — 

Some The fact is ? 

Bob You know Mrs. Cruger ? 

Some Yes. 

Others Why ? 

Bob Well, she's coming here to-night. 

Some Here ? 

Jack What for ? 

FoLLANSBEE The devil ! 

Lead Exactly ! Burton, you'll have to lay another cover. 

Bob Shut up ! Sit down ! Here's the v^^hole story. She's taken to 
literature lately — she's good at it, too — and she v^^ants a Bohemian supper 
scene experience for the next chapter of her latest. Nothing would do but 
I must make an opportunity for her, and — This is it ! 

Jack Oh, .it is. Bob, you're the limit — the original limit. Is she 
coming alone ? 

Bob Of course not ! Her maid is with her. They are both below in 
the carriage, waiting. I came up ahead. 

FoLLANSBEE Waiting all this time ? 

Bob O, they don't mind. 

Jack Go down and tell them to drive on. They can't come. I won't 
have it. 

Bob I'll do nothing of the sort. If I do, she'll not marry me for three 
years. She said so and she means it. 

Jack You're a fool. Well, I suppose there's no help for it. You 
fellows will oblige me by holding yourselves well in. Be as witty as you 
like, but be decent. I dare sa)' Mile. Marguerite will have to do a little in- 
teresting modulatory work herself. 

Bob O, I don't know. 

Jack Neither do I. But I don't suppose she has the manners of a 
queen. I'll fetch them. 

Bob By your leave — I'll fetch them my.self. I said I would. They'll 
be expecting me. 

Jack I mean what I say; we'll have no suggestion even. 

Follansbee What's that? Suggestion? 

Jack Suggestion is well gowned indecency. And I'll have none of it. 

lyEAD This will be an experience. Mile. Cliquot, just a little cham- 
pagne — ^just a sup. Never drink ! How unfortunate! Perhaps you eat ? 
A pate, peutetre ? 

Jack Don't be a fool. What was that? 

Dor. Good evening. Is this Mr. Willoughby's? 
- Burton Yes, mam. Come in, mam. 

Dor. I thought I'd never get here. Don't quarrel about it. Here! 
Here! Take off my gloves. 

Jack Dorothea I 

Follansbee Miss Van Dresser! 

Dor. Take care — your man. What are you trembling about ? What 
a beautiful place. Isn't it red! That's lovely music. Too low. Too 

24 



high. Don't stand in a trance. The whole room will know there's some- 
thing amiss in a minute. Don't look like that. It's a dash for happiness. 
That's all. I'm your guest. Introduce me. 

Jack — Watson — Bentley! Mile. Marguerite he Petite Cliquot, Mr. 
Watson, Mr. Bentley. 

Lead — Jack! 

Jack — Mr. Lead. Mr. Brown — Mr. Green. 

Dor. — Any more colors? Delighted! 

Lead — Why don't you speak to me ? 

Dor. — I'm looking at you. 

Leat5 — Mile! you wear my ring. 

Dor. — And A's bracelet, and B's brooch, and C's picture, and D's 
flowers, and E's necklace. 

Lead — All women are false. 

Dor. — No, only some. I have Shakespeare's authority. You have 
eyes just like my kitten. 

Lead — What makes your hand so soft ? 

Dor. — The right soap ! 

Jack — Get these men into the other room at once. I must send her 
home. Miller's juggling. Get them in. 

Dor. — ^Jack ! So your name's Jack? It's a pretty name. Come here, 
and kiss me — on the hand. Who's that ? 

Jack — A woman— a lady. 

Dor. — A blonde. They are always ladies. That's what makes them 
so stupid. 

Jack — You must go home at once, do you hear? 

Dor. — You're not very hospitable. 

Jack — This is no time for jesting. Here's your cloak. I'll see you to 
your carriage. Be quick ! 

Dor. — I'll not go home. And if you make a scene it will be all over 
New York in the morning. Do you want it all over New York in the morn- 
ing—made mountains of in the yellow press ? 

Jack — Dorothea ! 

Dor. — What difference does it make to you, anyway, or to anybody but 
me? 

Jack — No difference, now. The idol is shattered. I wouldn't have 
believed it. It's disgusting ! 

Dor. — Jack ! Jack ! 

Jack — Disgusting. No, it's nothing tome now— nothing really. And 
I loved. Men are fools. But you're still my cousin— a Van Dresser, 
and you shall not disgrace the name. You shall go at once. 

Dor.— And I loved— Bah ! And I loved— 

Jack — I see it all now. I see why you were sent to a convent; why 
your aunt and your father hem you about. I have their names to think of 
and mine. You shall go at once. Do you hear ? 

Dor. — Yes, I hear. I'm not deaf. But I'm not going. I'm here to 

stay. 

25 



Jack — This is horrible ! What does all this mean ? How did it hap- 
pen ? What are you going to do ? 

Dor. — It means mischief. It happened quite by chance, oh, such a 
chance ! I don't know what I'm going to do. 
Jack — Mrs. Cruger, this is a great surprise. 
Helen — Yes, I expected it would be. Jolly up. 

Dor. — And I loved--loved— loved. And now I--- The girl in the 
gray morocco case. What a fool I am. What liars men are. I'll show 
him— but their attentions are not a tribute. 
Helen — Who's that ? Introduce me. 

Jack — Mile. Marguerite, Le Petite Cliquot, Mrs. Cruger, Miss Parker. 
Dor. — Mrs., Miss, Delighted ! Vaudeville or the legitimate? 
Helen I'm not a professional Mile. I'm sorry to say. 
D3R. — Oh, society! What a pity! Doesn't it jar you ? 
Lead — It jolts her. 

Dor. — Your'e wasting your life. Oh, cut society. Go in for piety. 
It's really quite a decent thing to do. 
Lead — To the woman I love. 
All — To the woman he loves. 
Dor. — A song for the woman you love, 
God love her. 
A song for the eyes that tender shine, 
For the passionate lips that melt on thine, 
For the hand that reaches to lead thee right. 
For the hopes that are shedding their holy light, 
To the future's dream. May she ever rest. 
First in thy heart, first always and best, 
A song for the woman you love. 
God love her. 

All — A song for the woman we love! God love her. 
Dor. — A prayer for the woman you loved, 

A prayer for the eyes that are dimmed with tears, 
For the heart so cold that listens and hears 
But the knell of life. A woman sobs, 
One heart breaks while another throbs, 
'Tis ever thus — for till we sleep 
The one shall laugh and the other weep. 
A prayer for the woman you loved, 
God love her. 
All — A prayer for the woman we loved. God love her. 
Dor. Loved me ? This is a true melodrama. My, I believe I'm a 
better actress than dancer. I've made you all as solemn as owls. Jolly up. 
Bent. — You wear my bracelet. 

Dor. — Ye — e — es. It's pretty. Your taste is good. He doesn't 
recognize me. He is a bat. "For we are jolly good fellows — for we are 
jolly good fellows." Women are rather flighty, aren't they? 
FoLLANSBKE — Of whom are you thinking. 
Dor. — Of my.self. 

FoLLANSBEE — If to be flighty means to be adorable. 

26 



Dor. — Take care, Mr. FoUansbee. I like your directness. 

FoLLANSBEE — Translated means you dislike my foolishness. 

Dor. — Some men are lovable because they are foolish. It may act 
against worldly success, but it is a finer quality than cunning. 

Jack — Are j^ou going to leave these rooms? 

Dor. — No! Who is that ? 

Jack — Mr. Gaylaws. 

Dor. — Gaylaws? Does he belong to your set? 

Jack — Yes. But you don't need to know him. 

Dor.— ^Why not? Oh, Mrs. Cruger! Do you ever go to the races? 

Helen — I have been, yes. 

Dor. Well, go next week. Mr. Gaylaws rides "Excitement." 

Bent Gaylaws? Why he doesn't know a postem from a fetlock. 

Bob "Excitement!" "Excitement!" I never heard of the horse. 

Dor. Look him up. I've backed him for a place. But I can't wear 
his colors, because I've promised to wear — 

Bob, Watson and Bent Mine! 

Dor. Mr Follansbee's. 

Bob, Watson and Bent Oh! 

Dor. Perhaps he'll win. 

Follansbee Dorothea, you are so beautiful! You are charming! 

Dor. I know it. I know it. A woman's charm is like the odor of 
violets. If you come too close to it you can't perceive it. Clear the floor 
and let me dance. I came here to dance. He loved me and I did not know 
it. I did not know it. 

Jack Dorothea! You shall go home. You must not do this. 

Dor. I was asked here to dance, and I shall dance. A mazourka! 

Lead A mazourka for Mile. Cliquot! 

Extra A mazourka! 

Off Stage A mazourka! 

Dor. I shall dance. In the moonlight. There's a melody in my 
heart yet unsung! 

Lead A mazourka for Mile. Cliquot. 

Dor. Loved me. How can men lie like that ? How can they ? 

Follansbee She's better than Cliquot! 

Jack She'd need to be. God knows you know that. 

Follansbee A better dancer. 

Dor. What are you doing here? 

Stuyvesant What is this costume ? 

Dor. a suit of vSable— that best befits my mood. 

Lead A mazourka for Mile. Cliquot! 

Extra A mazourka! 

Off Stage A mazourka! 

Dor. I shall dance— In the moonlight! There's a melody in my 

heart yet unsung! 

27 



Benton Mr, and Miss Van Dresser! 

Stuyvesant M}^ God! Dorothea! W/iat are you doing here? 
What are you doing here? 



ACT III— Scene 



Scene: Same as Act i. Hour 7:30. Stage dim. Firelight only. 

Discovered : Dorothea seated at table facing audience. The twenty 
photographs arranged in a semi-circle on table; backs up. On back of Fol- 
lansbee's photo is a gum of some sort so that it can be easily speared and 
held on paper knife. Paper knife handy, also letter and directed envelope 
on table. Dorothea sits, elbows on table, chin in hands, looking into the 
blue. Before rise of curtain orchestra plays "Home Sweet Home." Cur- 
tain rises at first bar of chorus. No other sound or movement vintil — 

Dor. Dorothea! Yes, father. See that you are ready by Tuesday to 
sail. You shall go back to the convent for a post graduate course in man- 
ners and morals. Umph! How nice. Dorothea! Yes, aunt Matilda. See 
that you are ready by Thursday to sail. We shall remain abroad a year 
quietly, in Switzerland, until this — scandal is blown over and we can face 
the Daughters of the Revolution— and the family portraits. Umph! how 
very nice. It's one or the other though. I can feel it in the air. I won't go. 
I won't go. I'll start a kindergarten. I'll give piano lessons. Oh, dear 
no. I never could stand that. It would get on my nerves. I'll marry 
him. I will! I will! It can't be worse than this, and it's likely to be 
better. ' My dear Mr. Follansbee: After due consideration — due considera- 
tion? — I have decided to accept the offer of marriage with which you 
have several times hon6red me Several — any small number less than ten 
— yes, I think he's just inside the limit. I do not love you! I can't see 
that so many people love their husbands. Not love you, of course you 
know that — but they tell me it is not imperative — 'hat love is a matter of 
growth. Growth! I wonder if he'll enjoy the growing pains. Violets — 
Jack will not bring me violets again. He'll bring me roses — red ro.ses. I 
hate red roses. I wonder, did you love my father. I wonder, did he let 
you love him. I wonder, does he need to be loved. There he is! Well, 
have you made up your mind? 

Stuyvesant To what ? 

Dor. What you are going to do to me? Of course you're going to 
do something to me. What are you thinking of do — 

Stuyves.\nt I was thinking that women of breeding do not whistle. 

Dor. There are exceptions to all rules. 

Stuyvesant You are to go back to the school on Tuesda}'. 

Dor. Do you know I'm twenty-three? I'll not go back to the con- 
vent on Tuesday — nor Wednesday, nor Thursday, nor ever again! I'll not 
be told what to do any longer. Hereafter I shall think for myself, and act 
for myself too. You .see me ba:^k at the convent studying the crops of 
Florida — the functions of the liver — the ten commandments — the laws of 

28 



light, writing essays on "A year in the I,ife of a Hedge." When all the 
time I'm somewhere else. Working up a list of the irregular verbs. 

Stuyvesant Dorothea, this is no time to trifle. I am serious. 

Dor. And so am I — very serious. Don't you think I'm old enough 
to act and think for myself, too? 

Stuyvesant You are my daughter, a member of my household; not 
an independent member, I may remind you. 

Dor. You need not have reminded me. 

Stuyvesant Until you marry you are subject to my commands. The 
gift of a hundred years old name is to you so light a thing that you have not 
hesitated to flaunt it in a bachelor's rooms, as a public dancer. What you 
have done I cannot undo, but I can, and shall, put it past your power of 
repetition, or worse. You shall go back to the convent on Tuesday, to be 
specially taught that women of birth should have nothing in common with 
creatures inevitable perhaps, but since the creation so numerous as to stand 
bare, unattractive incidents. 

Dor. And that men, whom God has made fathers, should know their 
children, and count that day lost that does not bind the closer a bond of love 
between them. I'll not go back to the convent ! Things are a little dull, 
aren't they, Parker? Never mind; there is always a slump after excite- 
ment. We'll key up presently. 

Parker Miss Dollie's in a mighty queer mood. I don't like it. It's 
the red hair. Red hair don't grov/ out of soft heads. I've found out that 
for myself. It was a bad business. I knew it was a bad business. And 
what all's to become of me ? 

Jack Where is your master ? 

Joyce In the study, sir. 

Jack I'll go to him. 

Joyce What's the matter in the house ? 

Parker Matter? The chairs are crooked. 

Joyce What's the matter with the master and Miss Matilda, I mean ? 

Parker How should I know? 

JOY'CE By keeping your ears open. 

Parker ! ! .' 

Joyce And your eyes. And doin' a little thinkin and puttin two and 
two together and making it five. 

Parker ! ! ! 

Joyce I wouldn't approve of it as a regular thing, but there's more 
needs straightening here than chairs. It's my belief something's happened. 

Parker You don't say so? What makes you think so? 

Joyce They're all so silent and separated like in rooms. 

Parker Silent? Silent? Silent? Miss Dorothea's been singing 
off and on all day, loud enough to be heard over in Brooklyn. 

Joyce Yes, but have you took notice what she's been singing ? 
"Home Sweet Home," "Calm as the Night," "The Fog Bell," "I'd Leave 
My Happy Home for You." "Be it ever so umble, there's no place like 
home." Now, does that indicate happiness? It's a bad sign when people 
goes about singing like that. It's a sign they're swearing inside. 

Parker ! ! ! 

29 



Joyce Or crying— or both. Now I think — 

Parker It's not a good plan for you to tell all you think at one sittin. 

Joyce But I'm standin. Now I think with Miss Dollie, it's to keep 
from both. It's her that's the matter— some way. She's a mighty different 
sort from the rest. 

Parker There's very few who can resist winsome Dollie. 

Joyce Miss Matilda can, and the master, and something's certainly 
going to happen, I don't know what. 

Parker It has happened. 

Joyce What ? 

Parker I've been given notice. 

Joyce You ? Matilda Ann Parker ? Given notice to quit ? What 
for ? 

Parker For not resisting winsome Dollie. For — fetching back those 
pillows. 

Joyce And are you going to leave ? 

Parker I am. 

JoY'CE Where to are you going ? 

Parker I don't know. 

Joyce Have you told the coachman ? 

Parker I have not. 

Joyce Don't tell him. It would hurt your pride terrible to be turned 
out after being the chief servant all these years. 

Parker That's just it. 

Joyce They'd all be laughing at you below stairs. But they don't 
one of them need to know it at all. 

Parker You're a fool! 

Joyce I am. I'm that tender hearted that I'm goin to give up my 
bachelorhood to save you from sorrow^s. Just tell them you're goin to 
marry me and that I won't have my wife in service. I'll tell them myself 
to-night at supper. I believe it's considered the fit thing to do. 

Parker It is. It is. You'd better do it. 

JOYXE Matilda Ann! It's also considered the fit thing to — . It's a 
queer wind that blows dust- in no one's eyes, Matilda Ann. Give up my 
bachelorhood ? Give up my bachelorhood ? What is a man without a 
wife ? A horse without a tail ? No one to keep the flies and gnats away 
from him. What is a woman without a husband ? A cow without horns? 
No one to protect and defend her. Give up my bachelorhood ? Here, 
miss — from Master Jack, miss. 

Dor. Is he here? 

Joyce Yes, miss — with the master, in the study, miss. 

Dor. Red roses! Red roses! ^ I knew it! Red roses! Ach! Ach! 
Poor old Parker! And we did it you and I. Don't you care — don't you 
care? I'll marry Mr. Fallensbee! I'll marry him and you can come and. 
live with me. We'll have couches all over the house, and pillows all over 
the floor. We'll have no manners but bad ones. We'll set the food in the 
centre of the table, and all grab out of the same dish. We'll not have athing 
straight in the house. I wonder what Jack will say. I know what he'll say. 
Ahem! My dear Dorothea, it is the very wisest thing you can do. After last 

30 



night it is plain that 5^011 need a protector- -a pair of horns whom you promise 
to lienor and obey. FoUausbee is a fine fellow and will make you an excellent 
husband. He is courageous to undertake the taming of yovi. Be worthj^ 
of his name, his devotion and his sacrifice. And he'll give Tom tips on the 
training of me. And he won't be sorry at all. Why should he be sorry ! 
Why should I care whether he's sorry or not? He's just my cousin — just 
my cousin. With a girl in a gray morocco case close to his heart. I sup- 
pose she's very, very good — very, very correct — very, very stupid! 

Stuyvesant It is not necessary to engage your word of honor. I 
believe you. I exonerate you —partly. I believe you had no part in her 
coming to your rooms. 

Jack And no part in her going from them. I tried. I did my best. 
To have insisted meant a scene. 

Stuyvesant Am I to infer that what I happened upon was not a 
scene ? 

Jack Until you came, Follansbee only, knew that she was not really 
Mile. Cliquot. That they should not know was my thought. 

Stuyvesant All this in no way excuses Dorothea. It is of her I am 
thinking — in relation to myself — my name — my family honor. Her con- 
duct is outrageous! The vulgarity of it all. She is no Van Dresser. She 
is the child of her mother — with some unaccountable additions. 

Jack She has the same beautiful eyes. 

Stuyvesant And the same spirit of independence, the same foolish 
readine^s to smile at anything, the same interest in trifles, which are not 
beautiful. I taught her mother dignity as I shall teach Dorothea — not by 
argument which is to stoop, but by command and precept. On Tuesday 
she goes back to the convent. A Van Dresser — think of it — a Van Dresser, 
with her name dragged through every club in the metropolis. 

Jack What do you mean ? 

Stuyvesant Mean ! Mean ! Were your rooms last night not filled 
with men about town — men of the world — the pick and choice of the clubs? 

Jack Yes, they were. But they were not filled with curs. Before 
they left my rooms they knew the truth, as you do, every man of them — 
for I told them myself. The story is closed — 'was forgotten before they 
bade me goodnight. 

Stuyvesant You ? 

Jack Sit down ! I have done a great deal of thinking in the last 
twelve hours. When my rooms were silent and empty I went through it 
all again, and a great many years before it. I've turned down for good 
some old time theories and turned up a few new ones. Dorothea shall not 
go back to the convent. It would mean her absolute ruin. I shall prevent 
it. I love her. If she loved me, which she does not, more's the pity, I 
should make her my wife. 

Stuyvesant Your wife ? 

Jack Yes ! 

Stuyvesant No daughter of mine, sir, should marry a rake. 

Jack Right— quite right, sir. No daughter of yours should marry a 
rake. I spoke of Jack Willoughby, attorney-at-law, society man-of-war if 
you like, who has sown many a field of wild oats and reaped them. But in 

31 



spite of this, or perhaps precisely because of this, knows how to love a true 
woman— as his life, and hold and guard and cherish her ! 

Stuyvesant Sown your wild oats ! A man whose real life is by 
candle life with his boon companions, whose talk around those candles would 
likely be fit for no woman's ears ! Sown youi wild oats ? When last night 
you — Then I am no judge. 

Jack Quite right again, you are no judge, if .<=o you sum a character. 
Sit down ! What Dorothea has done is your fault entirely. ' Yours and 
her Aunt Matilda's. You should get down on your knees and thank God 
that the whole thing is nothing but a harmless escapade. 

Stuyvesant You see fit to talk in riddles. 

Jack I 11 be plainer. I've some new ideas on this father tradition, 
and they're good ones. A mere accident of birth gives into your hands a 
soul to guard for better,for worse, for many a year, till it shall find itself, take 
wings and away. God means that you shall give that soul room to grow 
right and share the joy of its growth. Hem it about as you please, but grow 
it will, either towards you or from 3'ou, as it finds light. Do I make 
myself clear? It is just possible you have never been specially interesting 
to Dorothea. 

Stuyves.\nt In one moment 

Jack What special jugglery is there in six letters— f-a-t-h-e-r. Why? 
When he has never warmed to her winsomeness? So, now we know where 
we stand. There is no love lost between you, or very little. 

Stuyvesant You are frank, sir. 

Jack I mean only to be plain. No man is worthy the name of father 
who cannot feel every pleasure and pain in his children's hearts. Where 
indifference begins, beyond that he is not. And so with Dorothea, you are 
not very far. Just a moment and I have done. In need of sympathy as a 
flower needs light— this was Dorothea from a tiny child, and you did not 
understand her. You are cold. Dignity is your religion. You can't help 
that. Neither could the child help being hungry her whole life long. 

Stuyvesant The child has not been at home for nine years. 

Jack No, she has been at a convent, w^here she has lived upon herself 
and every sort of romance she could hide between the mattresses, getting 
her knowledge of the world from the girls who come and go. Convents are 
not all peace and prayer. 

Stuyvesant Well, that is past and she is come home— 

Jack To the monotonous level of modern society life — to form — to cer- 
emony — to criticism. 

Stuyvesant My daughter has not even good manners. Good con- 
ventional manners are absolutely necessary to decency. 

J.ack Nine-tenths of our manners would be impossible were we not all 
subject to contagion. 

Stuyvesant Would you have one overlook such things ? 

Jack I'd have suggestion come to her warm, not cold. I'd have her 
taken places by the hand. 

Stuyvesant By the hand ! 

Jack I tell you that women like her never lead colorless lives. They 
are the saints or the sinners of the world as fate wills. You can't fashion 

32 



her to order and she will be happy. A little more of this sort of discipline 
and she'll not care much — how. 

Stuyvesant— Stop ! You have said enough. 

Jack — No, not quite enough. You do not know your daughter and 
you never will. You have cut the nerve of filial affection and all she needs 
is a strong arm about her and a baby on her knee to make her one of God's 
noblest women. Mine cannot be that arm, for she does not love me. But 
until she finds it you had best let her be happy. As last night comes back 
to me in recollection, I realize that your daughter will never be ruled again. 

Stuyvesant — Enough ! Further discussion is useless ! My daughter 
goes back to the convent on Tuesday. 

Jack — You don't like it, but I fancy you will close the door and think 
it over. Where is Miss Dollie, Joyce ? 

Joyce — I don't know, sir. 

Jack — No, I'll find her. 

Dor. — More thinking. It's my opinion people had better stop thinking 
and get ready for the opera. They'll be late. Joyce, ask father if he has 
forgotten we go to the opera to-night ? Tell him I am ready when he is. 

Joyce — Perhaps the study door is closed, miss. 

Dor. — Yes. I think I heard it- -close. Open it. 

Joyce — Yes, miss. Has Master Jack found you, miss? 

Dor. — No. Was he looking for me ? 

Joyce — Up stairs, miss. 

Dor. — Up stairs? The King of France with fifty thousand men 
marched up the hill and down again. I guess we'll be late for the opera. 
Oh, you've got here at last, Mr. Willoughby. I've been rather expecting 
you all day. 

Jack — I've been here five times — to see your father — at lo, at 12, at 
3, at 5 and— 

Dor. — You live to tell the tale. 

Jack — T saw him but once — ^just now. Where have you been ? Where 
are you going ? 

Dor. — To another candle talk. To the opera. 

Jack- -To the opera ? With whom ? 

Dor. — With you — and father — and aunt Matilda. 

Jack — Dorothea ! You've seen him since I — he's forgiven you? 

Dor. — Forgiven me? What for? I've done nothing that requires fdr- 
givness. That is — I suppose I'm going to the opera. It was part of the 
week's arrangements, I have not been told the engagement was off. 

Jack I don't understand you at all. I thought I did, but indeed I do 



not. 



Dor. I know you don't. I can't help that. 

Jack What has your father said ? 

Dor. Nothing- -much. 

Jack Aunt Matilda ? 

Dor. Nothing at all. 

Jack You ? 

33 



Dor. Very little. We rode home in dignified icy silence. Father 
went to his room; Aunt Matilda went to her room; I went to my room. 
Father has spent the day in his study, to give me advice, planning to send 
me back to the convent. Aunt Matilda has kept to her room — had her 
meals there--arranging a trip to Europe — she and I- -alone. I have occu- 
pied the rest of the house, planning a campaign of my own. Do you know 
a nice respectable place where I can go a — governessing — something for 
thirty pounds a year and a little victuals ? Some place where they want to 
know Darwin and dancing and disobedience? Oh — you wouldn't give me a 
recommend, would you ? You don't know how valuable I'd be. Oh, I'd 
be worth the thirty. Here, Mr. Willoughby, read this! 

Jack FoUansbee — Tom Follansbee. Why did you choose him ? 

Dor. He loves me. 

Jack You don't love him ? 

Dor. No. No. That does not matter much in our set, does it ? He 
loves me. At least he says he does. He's handsome, well-bred, rich, and 
can trace his pedigree back to cocked hats and feathers — bac^k to no hats. 
I'll be mistress in my own house, and I can do as I please. I can't set up 
bachelor hall, for I have no money — the money is father's. So — ^I shall be 
married — at high noon — in soft gray- -it's so becoming — by a Justice of the 
Peace — no obedience — I'm done w'ith obedience. Oh, I wish I were a man 
and a Croesus! 

Jack And if you were — what would 5''ou do ? 

Dor. I don't know — I don't know. Turn the whole world over. 
Buy the presidential election and marry Zaza. 

Jack Dorothea! Dollie! Do you know what you are doing — what 
5^ou are saying — where you are drifting? 

Dor. I don't want to know. 

Jack You wall marry this man you do not love — who does not love 
3'ou. Yes, he says he does, but self is his God. He coverts you. There 
are other names for what he calls, love — 

Dor. How dare you ? 

Jack A year of life together at best — a year of hell for you — then 
divorce — then what — Avhat? 

Dor. a trip abroad — without aunt Matilda — delightful! 

Jack Dollie! Dollie! Let me save you from yourself. I love you, 
have always loved you. Give me the right to protect you, to watch over 
you. I know you do not love me — but no matter. Perhaps some day 3'ou 
may. It would not be natural if you didn't. Until then be my wife in 
name only, dear. You shall be ray sister — my little sister. Dollie! Dollie! 
Do you hear ? To love and protect. 

Dor. And while you have always loved me, next to your heart, in a 
gray morocco case, you have worn the picture of the woman you are one 
day to marry, if she will have you. 

Jack Bob! I'll— 

Dor. I suppose she has refused you ? 

Jack Not — yet! 

Dor. You told Bob he didn't know her. 

Jack Nor does he — find me the man who does know you. 

Dor. Who— ever — told — you— I — did — not— love — you ? 

34 



Jack Dollie — Dollie! 

Dor. Jack! Jack! I've waited all my life for just this! And now 
the whole world has changed in a minute! 

Jack Because you are going to have your own way for all the years 
to come. 

Dor. I don't want my own way ever again. 

Jack A song for the woman I love! God love her! 

Dor. No. No. But you will when you've faced father. He doesn't 
think very much of you now, and Aunt Matilda — she never did think much 
of you. When you face them and tell them about — us, you'll deserve two 
like me. No. No, not again — not for twenty-four hours. It's not respec- 
table. Go in, beard the lion in his den, come out victorious, and I'll cut 
off twenty-three hours! 

Jack God! I could win any battle. I could beat my way through a 
stone wall. And that's already tottering. 

Parker Well, what do you think of it? I'm to go and leave you, 
and whoever takes my place will let dust get on your gown and the sun 
shine in your eyes and — 

Dor. No they won't — for nobody shall take your place — you are 
going to stay, do you hear? If you go, I go and the picture goes with us. 
Now go and tell Joyce he may join us, too, if he likes. 

Helen And I came here to find you in tears and offer you a home. 

Bob Yes, we came to offer you a home. 

Dor. How many homes — one or two ? 

Bob He took a thread of meadow grass and measured for the ring. 

Dor. Make it a beauty, she's worth it. 

Stuyvesant Dorothea, are you ready for the opera ? 

Dor. Aren't we a little late ? 

.Stuyvesant The carriages are at the door — we have ten minutes — 
that is ample time. 

Jack It's all right. Not a protest. Matilda is still wrathy, but she 
doesn't count. 

Dor. I wan't to be sure it is not all a dream. 

Jack A song for the woman I love. God love her. 



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